Amelia stared at herself in the mirror of the gritty bus station ladies room, surprised to find she was very good at hiding her feelings. None of the turmoil she felt at being separated from Luke was apparent on her face. Not even her eyes betrayed the feelings churning her insides. They were tranquil, purple pools, an odd contrast to the scratches and bruises she knew lurked beneath the make-up and the pounding of her heart. She’d seen men follow Luke into the bathroom, but not all of them. She hoped he was right, that they’d leave him alone as long as they believed he’d lead them to her. No one had given her a second look. The last off the bus, she’d attached herself to a small group of chattering women making a beeline for the ladies room.

Panic had bubbled up inside her, but it seemed unable to break through to the surface. The calm façade appeared impenetrable. This ability to disguise her fear might have pleased her, if it weren’t for the flash of memory from the gun shop, the feeling she’d pointed a weapon at a shadowy figure and pulled the trigger. The bullet speeding toward the dark silhouette. The rifle had felt comfortable, normal in her grip. If it had only been that, she might have been able to shrug it off as a hobby. This was the wild, wild West, after all, but her head was a veritable treasure trove of statistics about guns, and not just the ones in that shop. She could have lectured at length on the history and development of weapons but had managed to contain the urge, thanks to a throat dried with panic.

Who was she? What was she that she knew so much about guns? And how could she be so calm and controlled? On the inside it felt like she was fetal with fear. And it wasn’t just the fear she couldn’t see on her face. The pain wasn’t there either. There was lots of pain that should be there. She’d stiffened like mud in the sun while slumbering in Luke’s arms. It wasn’t natural. It wasn’t normal. What if she was some paranoid paramilitary type with a huge stash of guns? Or a hit woman? And what would Luke find when he went to her apartment?

If only she could remember, but every time she tried to pierce the veil of her memory, she got slapped back by the pain. You can’t hide from the past, not even in your own head, Luke had said, but how could she fight what she didn’t remember?

Luke’s beeper vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out. Nine-one-one. Time to emerge. Well, she looked around her. There was nothing more to learn about herself in this place. She turned and left, the last glimpse of her face still eerily serene.

Outside, the scene was moderately chaotic and intimidating, as her gaze swept the crowd for a glimpse of Luke, or his friend, Dewey. A man, tall and kind of lanky, waved at her cheerfully, a charming smile nicely breaking up the ordinary in his face. His brown hair fell across his forehead with small boy insistence, and he walked toward her as if his body couldn’t quite keep up with his thoughts. He fitted the description Luke had given her. She started to smile. She had just a moment to process the sudden wicked look in his brown eye, before he swept her into a hug and planted a kiss on her shocked mouth. She resisted for a moment and he whispered in her ear, “I’m Dewey. Play along. We’re being watched.”

So she hugged him back and found the tension in her stomach ease.

“Darling, welcome home.” He kept one arm around her waist, turning her toward the exit. “Denver was a desert without you.”

“A very cold desert,” Amelia said, a bit dryly.

There was no sign of Luke anywhere. Please let him be all right, she prayed, then she wondered if she believed in God.